


Downton of the Dead

by irrationalgame



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slash, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, canon character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jimmy decides to creep downstairs for a midnight snack, he nearly ends up as one himself. So begins a series of strange events at Downton Abbey!</p><p>Set after the end of Season Four, so possibly S4 spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Horror and M/M slash. Please read with caution and suspend your disbelief!

Jimmy _knew_ sneaking downstairs after hours for an illicit snack was against the rules. He _knew_ Carson would punish him if he was caught. He _knew_ he'd be in Mrs Patmore's bad books for eternity. He _knew_ he was risking no breakfast and extra work if he was found out. He knew all this, and yet he found himself creeping down the staff staircase in his pyjamas, dodging the creaky step and tip-toeing down the dark corridor, the tiles like slabs of ice beneath his bare feet. His stomach had just _insisted_ on groaning and grumbling, despite the generous helping of stew he'd gobbled during the staff dinner, rendering sleep completely impossible. Jimmy rationalised that if they fed him more, he wouldn't have to resort to stealing bread (and whatever else he could pilfer without it being noticed) from the kitchens in the middle of the night.  
  
Carson had turned all the lights out as per usual before retiring and the staff quarters lacked the large windows that the rest of the abbey benefitted from, so the moonlight made little impact on the pervading dark of the downstairs corridors. Jimmy had walked the halls so many times over the past two years that he was confident he could traverse them safely at night, even with his eyes shut. He closed his eyes and walked tentatively forwards, as if to prove the point to himself, only to stumble into the wall.  
  
"Shit," he hissed, rubbing his arm. He waited, statuesque, for a long moment to see if his clumsiness had disturbed anyone; silence, but for the wind outside and the creaks common to all old houses. Jimmy grinned - it looked as if his midnight snack was still on.  
  
When Jimmy rounded the corner into the kitchen he considered turning the light on - it was pitch black and full of clangy metal implements that could easily be knocked over and would be certain to bring the whole house running. He hovered by the switch; it was unlikely to disturb anyone, but he daren't risk it. Instead he placed a palm flat on the counter and used it as a guide rail to skirt around the edge of the kitchen, towards the pantry.  
  
Jimmy stopped dead, his hand clutching at the counter. The pantry door was open. He squinted in the darkness, listening and desperately trying to ascertain if someone else had the same idea, or if Mrs Patmore had simply left the door open.  
  
Except she never left it open. She was curiously particular about it.  
  
There was a dull thud from within the pantry as something fell from a shelf and Jimmy jumped back a full foot, his spine connecting noisily (and painfully) with the counter behind him. Jimmy rubbed his back and swore, annoyed that he'd been so startled by what would, undoubtedly, turn out to be a rat.  
  
Except rats didn't usually push pantry doors open.  
  
Or groan.  
  
Jimmy's eyes, now more accustomed to the lack of light, bulged with fear as a ragged, bloodied hand seized the edge of the pantry door, slowly creaking it open.  
  
"H-hello?" Jimmy croaked, wishing desperately he had turned on the kitchen lights. At the sound of his voice the door was thrown open, revealing a nightmarish vision standing in the doorway. "What, what are you doing?" Jimmy asked, struggling to keep his voice low and calm. The person, who Jimmy could only assume was a man groaned, lurching forwards. His face was dark with blood and he held his head at an unnatural angle.  
  
"Are you alright?" Jimmy asked, shocked at the man's appearance. His clothes were thick with blood and dirt, his shirt torn, his shoes missing. The man hissed, snapping his jaw shut with an audible click, and stretched his arms out towards Jimmy. Jimmy noted, with horror, that two of his fingers were missing.  
  
"I should get help," Jimmy frowned, "I'll get a doctor, or something..." He made to leave but the man darted to the right, blocking Jimmy's exit. He bared his teeth and gave a low, guttural groan, stumbling towards Jimmy. His eyes were clouded and dull, like the scratched glass eyes of an old china doll.  
  
"You stay back!" Jimmy exclaimed, circling around the table in the centre of the kitchen, keeping it between himself and the intruder. "I don't want any trouble!" But the man didn't listen - he grabbed at Jimmy across the table, his fingers grasping at Jimmy's pyjamas. That's when the smell hit Jimmy - it was deep and peaty, with an undertone of rot. Jimmy gagged and stumbled back, desperately trying to twist away from the man. He lost his balance, his feet slipping in something wet and syrupy on the kitchen floor, his head cracking on the tiles. To his disgust Jimmy realised he was lying in a pool of congealing blood.  
  
"Oh GOD!" Jimmy shouted, frantically scrabbling to his feet, only to slip and fall again, his feet unable to maintain any friction in the crimson pool. The man lurched around the table and fell onto Jimmy, his putrid hands clawing at Jimmy's hair.  
  
"HELP ME, PLEASE, HELP!" Jimmy screamed as the man lunged for Jimmy's throat, blood and saliva dripping from his ragged lips. Jimmy was momentarily blinded as the kitchen lights clicked on, before the man's hideous and inhuman face was fully illuminated. Jimmy couldn’t breathe, his throat tight with fear. A flash of bronze, perhaps that of a copper pan, skimmed into Jimmy's field of vision before connecting with the man's face with a deafening clang - the man fell sideways, stunned by the impact and Jimmy felt a strong arm hook him under the armpit and lift him to his feet. Someone had saved him.  
  
It was Thomas.  
  
"Are you alright?" Thomas said, holding one of Mrs Patmore's heavy copper pots out in front of him like a weapon. Jimmy nodded tightly. The man slowly rose, a raspy moan escaping his split lips, and turned to Jimmy and Thomas.  
  
"He tried to bite me, Mr Barrow" Jimmy trembled, clinging to Thomas's dressing gown, "What's wrong with him?"  
  
"I don't know," Thomas shook his head, "he looks most unwell." It was an understatement to be sure; the man looked positively cadaverous, his rib bones showing through a tear in his shirt, the skin almost falling away from his arms and face. The intruder took a shaky step towards them, his rotting arms outstretched. "Stay away, unless you want more of this!" Thomas exclaimed, brandishing the pot. The man ignored the warning and advanced, teeth clicking. Thomas put his full strength behind his swing; the pot connected with the side of the man's head, splitting his skull, but still he did not stop. Jimmy shrieked as Thomas pushed him aside, away from the attacker as they crashed to the floor in a tangled heap.  
  
"Thomas!" Jimmy cried - Thomas had his hands around the man's neck, holding him at arm’s length as they grappled on the floor. Jimmy searched the kitchen frantically for a weapon, his eyes resting on the knife drawer. He dashed to it, his bloodied feet skidding on the tiles, and pulled out a large boning knife. Acting on sheer adrenaline and instinct, Jimmy thrust the knife into the intruder's head; it pierced the bone with a sickening crunch. The man flopped onto Thomas, a lifeless dead weight, the knife handle protruding from the back of his skull. Jimmy freed Thomas from beneath the corpse and pulled him to his feet.  
  
"Thomas!" Jimmy hugged him tightly, awash with relief. "Are you hurt?"  
  
"No, I'm ok," Thomas replied shakily. They stayed locked together, in a terrified and breathless embrace, until the noise of feet on the staircase and voices in the corridor forced them back into the moment.  
  
"Mr Barrow!" Carson boomed from the doorway, "What on EARTH is going on..." Carson trailed off at the sight of the dead man on the kitchen floor. "Oh my..." He gaped, holding on to the doorframe for support. Mrs Hughes appeared beside him, quickly taking in the scene,  
  
"Mr Barrow, James, are you injured?" she asked, her eyes worried. "You're covered in blood."  
  
"It's not our blood," Jimmy replied, "I suppose it's his." He pointed to the intruder. "It were all over the floor Mrs Hughes."  
  
"Jimmy disturbed an intruder," Thomas said, trying to explain what had happened. "And he tried to kill us."  
  
"He tried to bite us," Jimmy shook, holding on to Thomas's arm for support. "He wasn't right Mrs Hughes."  
  
"What were you doing down here in the first place?" Carson asked, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the corpse defiling his kitchen.  
  
"I hardly think that's important at this point!" Mrs Hughes said, wide-eyed. "Mr Carson, you better fetch his Lordship."  
  
~  
  
The police, and a rather redundant Doctor Clarkson, came immediately. By this point the whole house was awake, but under strict instructions to remain upstairs and away from the crime scene. Lord Grantham was dealing with the police detective, who had already taken statements from both Jimmy and Thomas, while the doctor and constables prodded around the body.  
  
"I've never seen anything like it," Clarkson shook his head, his face pale. "The decay suggests he's been dead a good while but that's just not possible. Dead men don't break into houses and threaten staff."  
  
"Could it be a new sort of disease?" One of the constables suggested, jotting down notes on a small pad.  
  
"It's possible," Clarkson shrugged, "not anything I've heard of though. He needs to go to the coroner at York."  
  
"It's like the gas," Jimmy whispered. He was still shaking and leaning heavily on Thomas. "The way his skin's all coming off," Jimmy closed his eyes, clearly upset. "I saw it in the war."  
  
"Detective," Mrs Hughes said, noticing Jimmy's distress, "can Mr Barrow and James go now? I imagine they're rather eager to get cleaned up." The detective nodded, dismissing Jimmy and Thomas.  
  
"Make sure you scrub thoroughly and burn your clothes," Dr Clarkson added, "just to be safe."  
  
~  
  
Jimmy and Thomas ascended the stairs in silence, Jimmy's blood-stained hand still balled in the fabric of Thomas's robe. In the attic all the staff were gathered in the corridor, pale-faced and worried.  
  
"Mr Barrow, Jimmy?!" Moseley started, his mouth agape. "What's happened to you?"  
  
"There was an intruder," Thomas replied, dazed, "he tried to kill us." There were gasps from the women and disbelieving looks from the hall boys.  
  
"My goodness," Mrs Patmore shook her head, "are you hurt?"  
  
"No, thankfully Mrs Patmore," Thomas said, "just shaken."  
  
"I killed him," Jimmy said flatly, his eyes on the floor.  
  
"You had to," Thomas gripped Jimmy by the shoulders, afraid he would swoon away if he didn't hold him up. "Or else he'd have killed me."  
  
"Oh my word," Mrs Patmore muttered, "I don't think the women and boys need to hear this." She bustled into action: "Right, everyone needs to get back in their rooms. Now. Mr Barrow and Jimmy are in shock and they don't need you lot gawping at them." She hurried them away, closing doors behind the retreating staff.  
  
"You saved my life," Thomas said, lifting Jimmy's chin to make eye contact. Jimmy's cheeks were wet with silent tears.  
  
"And you saved mine," Jimmy replied, pressing his forehead against Thomas's, "again."  
  
"You two should get cleaned up," Mrs Patmore interrupted, "and try to get some sleep, if you can."  
  
~  
  
Thomas left Jimmy running a hot bath while he fetched them both clean pyjamas from their rooms. He frowned at the idea of having to burn his robe, but silently decided it was preferable to catching whatever disease the intruder had been carrying. When he returned to the bathroom Jimmy had already stripped off and submerged himself in the scalding bath, his clothes scrunched in a pile in the corner.  
  
"Ah, I'm sorry," Thomas said, blushing, "I didn't know. I'll go."  
  
"No!" Jimmy pleaded, "Please Mr Barrow, I can't be alone now." Thomas nodded, leaning awkwardly on the sink. "He was all rotten like a dead body," Jimmy said, staring into the bath water.  
  
"Doctor Clarkson said it might be a disease," Thomas interjected, worried where Jimmy's reasoning was taking him.  
  
"You were a medic; you ever see anything like that?" Jimmy frowned, his wet hair clinging to his brow.  
  
"It was a bit like the mustard gas," Thomas sighed, "but no. He didn't seem to feel any pain. One hit with Mrs Patmore's pan should have knocked him out for the count."  
  
"He was evil," Jimmy stuttered, "something demonic like."  
  
"Jimmy..."Thomas said softy, "you don't believe in ghosts and ghouls and that do you?"  
  
"No," Jimmy shook his head, "but I've never seen a ghost or a ghoul. Did you ever read 'Herbert West - Reanimator?"  
  
"No," Thomas pulled a face, "it not in that awful magazine you read, is it?"  
  
"It's not awful," Jimmy frowned, "it's exciting. Gives me the shivers sometimes. But anyway, in 'Reanimator' this man, Herbert West, he makes this medicine that can bring dead folk back to life. 'Cept they ain't right when they do come back, they're all violent and," - Jimmy paused, his eyes wide - "they're cannibals."  
  
"And you think that's what happened tonight? A mad doctor raised up a corpse, which attacked us because it wanted to eat us?" Thomas laughed at the insanity of it. “Sounds like a picture show!”  
  
"You can laugh," Jimmy frowned, "but he did try to bite us. And Clarkson said he looked like he'd been dead for ages."  
  
"Maybe Clarkson is our Reanimator?" Thomas raised an eyebrow; it was meant as a joke but Jimmy seemed to be seriously considering it. "Jimmy I was joking - Clarkson's not smart enough for that. He can't keep living folk alive, let alone bring back dead ones."  
  
"I know it's stupid," Jimmy soaped his hair, the water taking on a pink tinge, "but you explain it? I can't think of anything else."  
  
"He was just a lunatic, that's all," Thomas shrugged, willing himself to believe it. "Probably escaped some asylum. And you've had a shock - you're upset. You'll feel better in the morning."  
  
"It's over now though, isn't it?" Jimmy's eyes pleaded with Thomas's, desperate for reassurance.  
  
"Yes. It's over." Thomas replied.  
  
~  
  
Thomas felt decidedly better after a scorching hot, if awkward bath. Jimmy had insisted on staying in the room while Thomas bathed and had followed Thomas back to his bedroom after. He watched, curled up in Thomas's armchair, as Thomas wrapped their soiled nightclothes in an old sheet so he could burn them in the garden the next morning.  
  
"That's that dealt with," Thomas said, washing his hands in the bowl on his nightstand. Jimmy didn't answer; he regarded the bundle of clothing with a wary look, as if it might crawl up and bite him.  
  
"We're not going to get sick, are we?" Jimmy asked, his blue eyes rimmed with red.  
  
"No, I don't think so," Thomas tried to sound convincing. "He didn't bite us or anything and you didn't get any of his blood in your mouth, did you?" Jimmy shook his head, shivering visibly.  
  
"Can I stay here until morning?" Jimmy said, his voice small and threatening to break. "I'm...I'll never sleep on my own."  
  
"Yes," Thomas didn't hesitate; he didn't care one jot how it looked. Jimmy was afraid and traumatised - he'd just killed a 'man' in the kitchen, it was normal for him to want company. "But you can have the bed. I'll sleep in the chair." Jimmy shook his head and curled more tightly into the armchair.  
  
"No, I'm comfy here. Please." Jimmy begged and Thomas acquiesced. He found a spare blanket and tucked it around Jimmy, feeling his whole body trembling as he did.  
  
"You're safe here, with me," Thomas said, "you're safe now." Jimmy nodded and closed his eyes, so Thomas slipped into bed. He looked at the clock beside his bed: it was just after four. Wake up call was at six. Just two hours to try and get some sleep, although Thomas doubted it would come easily.  
  
~  
  
Jimmy watched Thomas slumber - the events of the night seemed to have exhausted him to the point of a deep, dreamless sleep. Jimmy was jealous - he'd not slept a wink himself, his mind and body far too on edge, and the morning was approaching rapidly. His back moaned at being cramped into the small chair and his head throbbed where he had cracked it on the kitchen floor. And he was cold, partly due to the draughty window, partly because the whole incident had put a chill right into his bones. He knew it was impossible, but that man - he wasn't even a 'man' anymore - was something evil. Jimmy had never been much for going to church, but he wished he had some sort of faith, some god to pray to. He sighed; he'd given up any hope in god during the war.  
  
The wind whistled around the Abbey making the old house creak and groan and almost flex in the stiff breeze. Jimmy shivered, recalling the low growling noise the intruder had made and how he'd salivated when his teeth had neared Jimmy's throat. Jimmy jumped out of the armchair, his limbs stiff, his throat tight with panic. He pulled back the covers and forced himself in the bed next to Thomas, wrapping his arms and legs around the under-butler. Thomas stirred, his eyes flickering open.  
  
"Jimmy?" Thomas started, his body stiffening as he slowly came to comprehend the situation.  
  
"Shush, shut up," Jimmy said, "I'm terrified, alright?" He gripped Thomas's nightclothes desperately, yanking Thomas closer. "Just bloody hold me and don't say anything." Thomas stared, his mouth agape, before nodding and pulling Jimmy into a tight embrace. "Now...go to sleep." Jimmy commanded. He shut his eyes, as if that were the end of the matter.  
  
Thomas stayed stock still, his heart threatening to burst, until Jimmy's ragged breaths evened out into the pattern of a sleeping man. He exhaled heavily, wishing he had a cigarette, and closed his eyes. Jimmy's hair was still damp and smelled of soap. His thighs were warm and tightly wrapped around one of Thomas's legs and his arms had settled around Thomas's middle. Thomas briefly mused that insane burglars should break into Downton on a daily basis, if this was the result. Even if it meant fighting them to the death.  
  
~  
  
Jimmy awoke with sunlight in his eyes and for a happy moment he was not burdened by the memory of the previous night. It took him a moment to register where he was exactly and what had happened, before he pushed himself out of Thomas's bed, his face reddening with embarrassment. Thomas was standing by the vanity, straightening his tie in the mirror. He was dressed in his civvies; the suit was good quality, if a little well-worn and Jimmy couldn't help but notice how the jacket flattered Thomas's strong shoulders.  
  
"Morning," Thomas nodded, aware that Jimmy had finally risen. "Don't worry, there's no rush to get up. His Lordship has insisted we take the day off." Jimmy looked at the clock - it was nearly lunchtime.  
  
"Oh," Jimmy said, for once wishing for the distraction of work. "That's kind of him."  
  
"I think we deserve it, all things considered," Thomas smiled, "you know, stopping a murderous madman and all that. I think I'm going to walk down to the village after lunch, see what's what."  
  
"Can I come?" Jimmy asked; the thought of being away from Thomas made him decidedly nervous. They often spent time together anyway, when their half days lined up, so it was nothing unusual, but Thomas noted the edge in Jimmy's voice.  
  
"Course, if you want to. We've just got to get past that lot downstairs first - Carson has filled them in, to an extent, but I'm sure they have questions," Thomas picked up his jacket. "Meet you in the servants’ hall?"  
  
"No," Jimmy said shortly, "wait. I'll be two minutes." He darted down the hall to his own room, pulled on his suit, ignored the state of his hair, and rushed back to Thomas's room.  
  
"Blimey, I've never seen you move so fast!" Thomas grinned.  
  
~  
  
Lunch was a testing affair; everyone had questions and a seemingly unfathomable level of concern for Jimmy and Thomas's welfare. Carson had indeed recounted the event to all staff, minus the insane theories and more 'colourful' moments, and he had somehow made the whole thing sound very mundane and boring, as if death in the kitchen was a regular occurrence.  
  
"I think you're both awfully brave," Ivy beamed, plonking an extra-large plate of mashed potato in front of Jimmy.  
  
"So do I," said Anna with a smile, "and I'm very glad neither of you were hurt."  
  
"This man..." Bates said, "did he say anything?"  
  
"No," Thomas shook his head, "he just sort of..."  
  
"Groaned," Jimmy pulled a face, "and growled."  
  
"It was like he didn't know what he was at," Thomas shrugged.

“How do the police think he got inside?” Moseley asked, clearly worried.

“They’re not sure, yet,” Mrs Hughes answered. “Probably a window left open somewhere upstairs.”  
  
"It's dead creepy," Daisy shivered, "in our kitchen as well! I've never scrubbed a floor so hard in my life!"  
  
"I think we can spare the details," Carson grumbled, "Mr Barrow and Jimmy have been through quite enough."  
  
When Thomas and Jimmy finally managed to escape, they made for the village, though neither of them needed anything in particular, but Thomas had felt a deep desire to just get out of the Abbey. Jimmy was walking closely beside him, his hand brushing against Thomas’s as they walked. It seemed the events of the previous night had changed the unspoken rules between them, allowing a level of contact and familiarity that Thomas could never have hoped for. They were about half way to the village when Jimmy stopped, his hand around Thomas's wrist.  
  
"Thomas," he said, licking his lips nervously, "I just want to say...thank you. For last night. For...everything."  
  
"And thank you," Thomas smiled tightly, his eyes on the place where Jimmy's fingers gripped his arm. "You saved me just as much as I saved you."  
  
"It was a team effort," Jimmy grinned. "But I meant to ask: what were you doing down in the kitchen anyway?"  
  
"I could ask you the same thing," Thomas answered.  
  
"Midnight snack," Jimmy shrugged, "I went to get a midnight snack and I nearly ended up as someone else's midnight snack."  
  
"You do that often, steal from the kitchens?" Thomas laughed, "No, I don't want to know. As under-butler I might have to report you. As for last night - I got up to use the bathroom and noticed your bedroom door was open. You weren't inside so I just," - Thomas looked away, embarrassed - "I thought I better check you were ok. I know how you like to get yourself into trouble. So I went looking for you."  
  
"Oh," Jimmy said, suddenly aware he was still holding Thomas's wrist. "Good job I'm a terrible thief and I forgot to shut my bedroom door." He released his grip on Thomas's wrist, sweeping his hand through his hair. Thomas turned away and started off towards the village. Jimmy watched him walk away, considering how lucky he was that Thomas cared so much for his safety - twice in recent memory Thomas had put himself in danger to help Jimmy. Jimmy didn't know much about being in love but he supposed that was the definition of it, to risk your own death for someone else. Jimmy jogged a few steps to catch up before falling in step beside the under-butler. They walked in a comfortable silence, both smoking, until they reached the village.  
  
Something was amiss.  
  
Despite being mid-afternoon the village was oddly empty and silent; the usual vendors and shoppers were absent, the bus to Ripon stood idling and devoid of passengers or driver, at one side of the green. More worrying still were the discarded bicycle, the broken windows at the butchers, the smears of red on the pavement near the post office, and the car that had seemingly crashed into the wall surrounding the Crawley house.  
  
"Oh god," Thomas said, dropping his half-smoked cigarette. "What's happened here?"  
  
"Something bad," Jimmy whispered, pulling on Thomas's arm. "Let's go, let's just go," he pleaded, "we can call the police when we get back to Downton."  
  
"No," Thomas shook his head, "what if there's someone here who needs help, someone injured? I'm a trained medic, I could help them." He pulled his arm free and walked onto the green, turning to survey the damage to the village. "Hello?" Thomas called loudly, "is anyone there?"  
  
"Shhh," Jimmy winced, "don't do that!"  
  
"What?" Thomas said loudly, "I need to know if there's anyone here I can help."  
  
Jimmy saw them before Thomas, but he couldn't speak, let alone move. They came, lurching and groaning, their bloodied mouths drawn back into snarls, from the doorways and alleys of the village.  
  
"Oh," Thomas said, squinting, "there’s people here, look..." he trailed off, his forehead furrowing into a frown. ”Oh good god," he muttered as the penny dropped and he realised what Jimmy had deduced immediately. The villagers were not, it seemed, themselves anymore. Thomas stared in horror as the crowd approached with dead, unconscious eyes. Jimmy grabbed Thomas's hand, jerking him out of inaction.  
  
"Run Thomas," he cried, his eyes wide, "for god’s sake, run!" They turned and ran, hand-in-hand, back towards Downton Abbey, their legs pumping and their feet pounding on the country road. The hoard followed, stumbling and shuffling on broken limbs, slow but determined. Jimmy was younger and apparently fitter than Thomas, who seemed to tire after a few minutes running, leaving Jimmy pulling Thomas forwards by his arm. Jimmy risked a look over his shoulder – the villagers were distant but still giving chase.  
  
"In here!" Jimmy said, dragging Thomas into the wood. They crashed through the undergrowth, panting and slipping on wet leaves. Thomas lost his hat to a bush and Jimmy was whipped in the face by a bramble, leaving a nasty gash on his cheek. Finally, with burning lungs, Thomas had to stop and lean on a tree; he could run no more. Jimmy pulled up beside him and pressed his palm against Thomas's mouth, signalling him to be quiet and listen. The forest was noiseless, save for the wind rustling the leaves and the odd blackbird trilling in the distance.  
  
"I don't think they followed," Jimmy whispered. His face was ruddy from exertion, his brow wet with sweat. He pulled off his cap and wiped his face with it before tucking it into his pocket. "They don't seem too agile, we'd hear them if they were in here."  
  
"What the hell is happening?" Thomas hissed, "Did they get the disease too? I saw the butcher amongst them, and the man from the pub."  
  
"I don't know," Jimmy said, but we have to get back to Downton and warn everyone."  
  
"What’re we going to tell them?" Thomas gestured incredulously, "that a hoard of murderous _monsters_ that used to be the population of the village is on its way to eat them?"  
  
"Yes," said Jimmy, "and if they want to stay alive, they'll believe us."


	2. Dirty Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bates is accosted by the postman, Mary finds she's rather good at getting her hands dirty and Jimmy tells Thomas not to be a hero.

Bates had decided, as the weather was still good for autumn, to sit in the yard and finish up his sewing. Daylight made the whole task a lot easier and honestly, the servants hall smelt so overwhelmingly of disinfectant it was making his eyes water. It was peaceful outside, with only the distant clatter of pots in the kitchen and the muffled voice of Mrs Patmore barking orders to disturb the peace. As he carefully mended the pocket of one of Lord Grantham's jackets, he mulled over the events of the previous evening; shocking and hard to believe as they were, he had sensed no dishonesty in Thomas or Jimmy's account of the ordeal. Bates wondered if killing the intruder had been a little unnecessary, but then he imagined how he would react if it was Anna who had been threatened, and found he'd have done no less himself. In fact, it spoke measures for Thomas and Jimmy's 'friendship' that they would risk their own safety for each other - he knew Thomas to be capable of selflessness, but was pleasantly surprised that Jimmy could show such devotion, when he'd repeatedly proven his lack of concern for anyone but himself.  
  
Bates let his mind wonder to the beating Thomas had received at the Thirsk fair - it wasn't common knowledge that he'd taken Jimmy's place to protect the foolish lad, but Bates had deduced as much. He smiled; the change in Thomas Barrow over the last ten years had been large and in Bates's opinion Thomas was now much improved, in part for the lack of O'Brien's machinations. Of late he'd verged on pleasant, and Bates found he cared, if only a little, for the seemingly lonely under-butler, and hoped that the silly young footman would soon realise what (or who) was in his best interests.

“Ouch!” Bates exclaimed, accidentally sinking the sewing needle into his left index finger, a drop of blood immediately appearing on the surface. He sucked at the pinprick, chiding himself for letting his mind wander when he should have been concentrating on not sewing his finger into the garment. He stood, stretching out the ache in his bad leg, smiling to himself at his own foolishness. That’s when he noticed him – the man approaching up the gravel path to the servant’s entrance. It looked very much like the postman, due to his uniform, but something was off about him; he staggered unsteadily, his arms held out before his body like he was afraid of overbalancing and toppling forwards. And he was making a low, gargling noise in his throat, which Bates could only just make out over the sound of the crunching gravel.

“Hello there?” Bates said, grasping his cane firmly in his right hand. A shiver worked its way up Bates’s spine and his gut told him this was not a normal visit from the postman. The postman moaned as he approached, and to Bates’s horror, vomited a pool of dark blood.

“I should get someone,” Bates started, but the postman lunged towards him, blood still running down his chin, his teeth bared. Bates raised his cane and cracked the postman on the side of the head, slowing his approach. “I’m warning you,” Bates growled, “come any closer and you’ll wish you hadn’t.” The postman shrieked, making a grab for Bates, who moved aside more nimbly than one would expect for a man who walked with a cane. He raised the aforementioned cane and swung it hard, knocking the postman onto his back. Bates recalled how Thomas had described hitting the intruder, hard, with a copper pot and it seemingly having no effect until Jimmy had pierced his skull with a kitchen knife. He put a heavy foot on the postman’s chest, pinning him to the ground, and inspected the man more closely.

“What on earth are you?” Bates grimaced at the grey-white skin, dull eyes and madly gnashing teeth of the ex-postman. He paused for a moment before bringing his cane down sharply, the end sliding easily through the postman’s eye socket and into his brain. He stilled, instantly. “Sorry old chap,” Bates sighed, “but you were not long for this world anyway.”

~

Jimmy waited nervously for Thomas to catch his breath, scanning the trees for any signs of movement, straining his ears to listen out for any suspicious sounds. Thomas leant against a tree, breathing heavily, his cheeks red.

“Your face is bleeding,” Thomas said finally, the rise and fall of his chest slowing to a more normal rate. Jimmy wiped at his cheek with the back of his knuckles, smearing blood over himself. “Come here,” Thomas said, pulling a pristine handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He dabbed the cut gently whilst steadying Jimmy’s head with his gloved hand. Jimmy leant into Thomas’s reassuring and tender touch, and placed both of his palms flat on Thomas’s chest, feeling the thudding of his heart. “We’ll get through this,” Thomas said softly, “whatever _this_ is. We’ve lived through the war; I’ll be damned if I let a bunch of deranged country folk be the end of us.”

“We have to get back to Downton,” Jimmy nodded, “thick doors and other people and _guns_.”

“The gun room is going to be my first stop,” Thomas agreed. He hadn’t fired a gun since his military training, but now was as good a time as ever to start.

“They’ll all think we’ve gone completely mad,” Jimmy sighed.

“Then let them think it. We’ll take weapons and food and we’ll leave for Ripon – maybe someone there knows what’s happening. At the least we can send police back to sort it out,” Thomas gave his handkerchief to Jimmy; it was one of the good monogrammed ones, but it was completely ruined. Jimmy tucked it into his pocket and seemed to visibly brace himself, nodding silently. “I won’t let anyone hurt you Jimmy, I promise you that.”

“We’ll look out for each other,” Jimmy replied, holding his left hand out for Thomas to take.

“Yes, we will,” Thomas said. He curled his fingers around Jimmy’s and they set off towards the Abbey.

~

Branson supposed that he had it good these days, as good as it had been for a long while at any rate. The sting of Sybil’s death had abated to a tolerable ache and young Sybbie thrived, pampered and loved as she was at Downton. He missed Matthew, more than he’d ever expected he would, but he was glad that Mary was starting to return to normalcy. She’d asked to accompany him to visit the farmers during the afternoon and was sat silently beside him in the passenger seat, her eyes distant, clearly deep in thought.

Branson sighed, looking across the fields and farms of the estate as he effortlessly guided the auto around the lanes. He had no real need to visit any of the farmers, but had wanted to be away from Downton for a while. He worried, after what had happened downstairs in the night, for Sybbie, but reasoned she’d be safe as houses in the midst of the Abbey and in broad daylight. He smiled at how fatherhood had affected him, how he’d changed from the rough young Irishman he used to be, to the ‘upstanding citizen’ he had become.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Mary asked, her alert brown eyes on Branson.

“I was just considering the commotion that occurred last night,” Branson replied, “and thinking about little Sybbie and George.”

“An awful business,” Mary said, her neat plum-coloured hat bobbing as she shook her head, “but the children will be perfectly safe with Papa at home. You needn’t worry.”

“It’s the job of fathers to worry,” Branson smiled, “and of mothers.”

“I think you worry enough for the both of us Tom,” Mary laughed.

Branson pulled the auto sharply to the right, turning in to one of the many farmyards that made up the Downton estate. The farmyard was empty; even the chickens that usually flapped around visitors feet were missing.

“This is Mr Harrison’s farm, is it not?” Mary inquired, letting herself out of the car.

“It is,” Branson said, impressed that Mary was becoming so familiar with the tenants. “Though I can’t think where everyone has gotten to.”

“Maybe they’re out in the fields?” Mary shrugged, stepping over a large muddy puddle. Branson hopped out of the car and surveyed the farmyard – the curtains were still drawn in the farmhouse, though it was unlike any farmer Branson had ever known to still be in bed mid-afternoon.

“But the tractor and the truck are still here,” Branson pointed to the green tractor that was parked at the far end of the farmyard, and the truck that was visible just inside the barn. He walked over to the barn and peered inside – bales of hay towered above him, but there were no farmhands lugging around tools or sacks of grain.

“There’s something inside the truck,” Mary said, leaning up to open the door. As she did, the bloodied and gnawed corpse of a young farmhand tumbled out, almost pinning Mary to the barn floor. She shrieked with shock, her hand flying to her throat in distress. Branson pulled Mary away, putting himself between her and the body.

“Good god,” Branson exclaimed, leaning in to study the cadaver. He was clearly dead; his throat had been opened. “There must have been an accident.”

“I’ll go to the farmhouse and knock,” Mary said, struggling to keep her voice level, “see if they have a telephone or if they can go for help.” Branson nodded, his eyes still on the body, as Mary exited the barn. He kneeled over the corpse and leant in closer, wondering what kind of accident might have caused such an injury, when the farmhand’s eyes flew open. Branson fell back in surprise, landing heavily on his behind. The young man moaned, dragging himself onto his knees, and crawled towards Branson.

“It’s alright,” Branson said, “we thought you were dead.” The farmhand didn’t reply, save to groan and drool bloodily, as he advanced towards Branson. “Wait!” Branson panicked, trying to scramble to his feet. It was too late; the farmhand was upon him, cold fingers grabbing at Branson’s throat. Branson curled his hand into a fist and delivered a heavy right cross to the farmhand’s cheek – he swayed, but wouldn’t release his grip, pulling himself onto Branson.

“Get off him!” Mary commanded, reappearing in the barn doorway. She grabbed a heavy square shovel from its position against the barn wall and waved it at the farmhand. “I’m not afraid to hit you!” she yelled.

“Then hit him!” Branson cried, wrestling with the farmhand. Mary took a heavy swing and clocked the farmhand square in the ear; his neck cracked audibly, his head lolling unnaturally to the side.

 “Hit him again Mary!” Branson gasped, struggling for breath. Mary obliged and her second stroke dislodged the farmhand’s head, sending it flying across the barn. Mary dropped the shovel and sat on a bale of hay, for fear she might faint. Branson scrambled from beneath the beheaded corpse, his eyes wide, his lips tinged with blue, scarcely able to believe what had just occurred.

“Are you alright?” Branson said, still gasping for breath. Deep red blotches were starting to form on his neck from where the fingers of the deceased farmhand had tried to strangle him.

“No,” Mary said, “but we are both alive and uninjured. That is good enough.”

“Relatively uninjured, at any rate,” Branson rubbed his neck, shivering at the memory of the farmhand’s head sailing across the barn. It was so horrific that it was almost comical. A quiet gargling-snapping-croaking sound roused Mary to her feet.

“What now?” she exclaimed, reclaiming her shovel. Branson and Mary peered across the barn; to their utter disbelief, the decapitated head was still twitching and snapping its jaw, pale eyes rolling disgustingly.

“That’s impossible,” Branson said, wishing very much for one of Robert’s hunting rifles.

“And yet there it is,” Mary pulled off her hat, tossing it behind her. A few tendrils of her chestnut hair had escaped their place and fell messily around her face, which was set in fierce determination. She raised the shovel above her head before bringing down the sharp blade directly across the contorted face of the impossibly-alive head. This time the farmhand was permanently silenced.

“Well,” Branson gaped, “no one can accuse you of not getting your hands dirty.”

~

The gathering in the servants’ yard made quite a scene; Carson was talking quietly and hurriedly to Lord Grantham, stressing that he’d _tried_ to telephone the police station, but that he couldn’t even reach the operator. Edith and Cora were standing close by, as if they were afraid to be more than a few feet away from Lord Grantham at any time. The rest of the downstairs staff huddled together, as if their numbers afforded some protection from whatever evil was intent on infiltrating the abbey. The postman lay in the middle of the yard where Bates had left him, a puddle of red slowly expanding around his head.

“And you really had to kill him?” Anna said, looking worriedly at Bates. He knew her concerns – he’d been tried for murder once before, making any action he took look incriminating and suspicious.

“It was him or me,” Bates replied calmly, “I promise you that.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to the world,” Mrs Patmore exclaimed, “or why we all needed to see a sight like this.”

“Because I think we all need to understand the seriousness of the situation,” Bates replied, “two attacks in as many days in no coincidence. We must be prepared for the possibility of more to come.”

“You really think we’re in for more of this horror?” Mrs Hughes frowned, wishing Bates would speak in a less dramatic tone. Ivy and Daisy clung together, faces pale and terrified.

“I’m afraid I do Mrs Hughes, and we must be ready,” Bates affirmed.

“Right, if I can have everyone’s attention,” Lord Grantham started, clearly lacking his usual easy authority, “I think we need to make a few things clear. Obviously something untoward is going on for such violence to have been laid at our doorstep. As it is, no-one is to leave the house without my express permission. The doors and windows should be kept locked and no-one outside the family and staff are to be allowed entrance.”

“M’lord, are Lady Mary and Mr Branson back yet?” Mrs Hughes inquired.

“No,” Lord Grantham looked pained, “nor are Barrow and James. If they don’t return in an hour I’ll take Bates and we’ll look for them ourselves, seeing as we cannot contact the police.”

The sound of a motor car approaching at speed interrupted Lord Grantham’s speech; it skidded audibly on the gravel, the noise drawing closer. Despite the warning, everyone jumped when Branson pulled the auto up at the entrance to the servants’ yard. He looked pale and worried; Lady Mary looked even worse.

“Mary!” Cora exclaimed, helping her daughter from the car, “my goodness what had happened?”

“You’ll never believe it” Branson said, “not in a million years.”

“I think we might,” Bates replied.

~

Dusk was rapidly approaching by the time Jimmy and Thomas reached Downton Abbey; the imposing silhouette had never looked more like home. The journey back had been, to the relief of both men, rather uneventful. They made for the front door, still hand in hand, caring not for propriety. Thomas knocked loudly and insistently, constantly checking over his shoulders for the approach of any hostile villagers.

“I bet we look a state,” Jimmy said. He wasn’t wrong – Thomas’s hair had fallen over his face and any semblance of a style had long vanished. His coat was dirty and snagged, his face pale and worried. Jimmy was in no better condition, the deep gash on his cheek angry and irritated by the sheen of sweat that trickled into it.

“I can’t pretend I care,” Thomas shook his head, “and I wish they’d hurry up.”

“Who goes there?” Carson boomed from the other side of the heavy wooden door.

“It’s us,” Thomas replied shortly, “Thomas and Jimmy. Let us in Carson, for god’s sake.” Carson harrumphed at Thomas’s rudeness, but opened the door. A very bedraggled Thomas and Jimmy practically fell into the entrance hall, their faces telling of their ordeal. Carson noted with disapproval that the under-butler and footman were holding hands.

“We have to speak to his lordship,” Thomas insisted, “something very bad has happened in the village.” Jimmy nodded in agreement, his blonde hair stuck to his forehead.

“Everyone is in the library,” Carson replied, gesturing towards the room, “you might was well add to the insanity.”

Not fully comprehending the situation, Thomas and Jimmy charged into the library, expecting to find the upstairs lot reclining. They were presented instead with the complete population of the house, upstairs and down, squeezed awkwardly into the one room, hall boys, kitchen maids, nannies and children included. Mary was sitting stiffly on the chaise, sipping a rather large sherry and looking for every bit like she’d been in a war. Branson hovered behind her, holding Sybbie protectively in one arm and little George in the other. Thomas was relieved to see the children were safe, and quickly checked off the faces of all the servants, relaxing a little when he realised everyone was accounted for. Baxter smiled, her face showing her unspoken relief at Thomas’s safety.

“Mr Barrow, James,” Lord Grantham said, “I’m so glad you’ve returned. We were just discussing plans to come looking for you.” Thomas guessed by his lordship’s tone, and the unusual arrangement in the library, that they knew something of the chaos outside. Jimmy slipped his hand out of Thomas’s but stayed very close to the under-butler, his shoulder pressed against Thomas’s.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Thomas raised an eyebrow, “we encountered a little ‘trouble’ in the village.”

“As did Tom and I on one of the farms,” Lady Mary added humourlessly, “I beheaded a man with a shovel.”

“And I killed a man in the yard with my cane,” Bates interjected.

“It’s not a contest,” Lord Grantham reproved, “it’s a rather serious situation. Please, Barrow, tell us about the village.”

~

It was agreed that first thing in the morning the men would venture out to ascertain the fate of Isobel Crawley and The Dowager Countess. Until then, they would take turns to keep watch over night, so that the rest of the house might get some sleep. Or at least take to their beds and rest, as it was unlikely anyone would actually sleep, given the circumstances. For once in her life, Daisy was glad to be sharing a room with Ivy.

“I can’t believe all this,” Ivy stated, sitting cross-legged on her bed, “it’s like a nightmare.”

“It’ll all get sorted out,” Daisy replied, “the police will figure it out.”

“But we can’t even get in touch with them,” Ivy shook her head, “Mr Carson said the telephone isn’t working. That means someone will have to go and fetch the police.”

“And they will,” Daisy said, “in the morning.” She noticed Ivy’s worried face and the way she twisted her hands in her lap. They might not be the best of friends, but Daisy didn’t like to see her scared. “It’ll be alright. We’ve got his lordship and Mr Branson and Mr Carson watching over us, and Mr Barrow and Jimmy – they were soldiers you know. If they got through that war, they’ll get through this,” she said, unknowingly echoing Thomas’s earlier sentiments. Ivy nodded slowly.

There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hughes let herself in, a tray of cups in her hand.

“Here you go girls,” Mrs Hughes said, pinning her most reassuring smile to her face, “a little hot cocoa for your nerves.” Her tone was light, as if it were any other day at Downton. Truth be told, she’d been so afraid to venture into the kitchens to make the blasted hot cocoa that she’d dragged both Mrs Patmore (under the pretence of helping her boil the milk) and a gun-wielding Mr Barrow along with her. The image of Mr Barrow stalking the corridors, rifle knocked against his shoulder, was strangely comforting.

“Thank you Mrs Hughes,” the girls chirruped in unison, each taking a warming mug of cocoa.

“Try and sleep,” Mrs Hughes advised, “but keep your clothes on. Just in case we need to be roused quickly in the night.” Daisy and Ivy exchanged a look. “And don’t worry, I’m sure everything will be fine,” she lied.

~

Thomas sat in the entrance hall, one of Lord Grantham’s hunting rifles leaning on the wall beside him. Jimmy paced endlessly, looking first out of the library windows, then the drawing room, then the dining room, before repeating the cycle.

“Jimmy,” Thomas hissed, “you’re making me dizzy. And anxious. Stop it.”

“I can’t,” Jimmy sighed, “I’m too nervous. Anyway, his lordship said to keep watch. I’m keeping watch.”

“You’re getting yourself all overexcited, that’s what you’re doing,” Thomas shook his head. “Come and sit down for a minute, please.” Jimmy tapped his foot impatiently, and then acquiesced, sitting right beside Thomas on the richly upholstered settee, pressing their thighs together.

“We should be leaving,” Jimmy said, distressed. “Not waiting here to be murdered.”

“And we will leave,” Thomas tried to reassure him, “once we’ve collected Mrs Crawley and old Lady Grantham. Remember the bus we saw in the village?”

“Yes. So?” Jimmy shrugged.

“I have a mind to borrow it,” Thomas itched for a cigarette, but thought even under the current circumstances he’d be lucky to get away with smoking in the entrance hall. “That way we can all load into it and get out of here.”

“You can’t drive,” Jimmy pointed out. It was true, but Thomas waved off his concerns.

“Branson and Lady Edith can, and I’d wager we could get the hang of it, if it were necessary,” Thomas shrugged. “If Lady Edith can do it, it can’t be that difficult.”

“Ok,” Jimmy ginned, “but don’t you go being a hero, Thomas Barrow.”

“That’s not very likely, is it?” Thomas chuckled, glad to have put a smile on Jimmy’s fraught face.

“You’re already my hero,” Jimmy said, suddenly very interested in pulling a loose thread from the upholstery of the settee.

“Well, can’t go letting you die, can I?” Thomas said, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s considered a very poor show to let your friends perish.” Jimmy smiled and shot Thomas a sideways look. He leaned his head against Thomas’s shoulder, his hand falling on Thomas’s knee.

“Mmmhm,” Jimmy mumbled, bringing his lips close to Thomas’s jaw. Jimmy still smelled of soap, even through the layer of sweat and dirt that clung to his clothes. Thomas felt the familiar tightening of his throat and rush of blood to his groin that happened any time he was close to the golden-haired boy. “Thomas,” Jimmy whispered, his lips now so close that Thomas could feel his warm breath against his skin, “I need to tell you something. And I need to tell you now, while I still have the chance.”

“Oh?” Thomas replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could with Jimmy’s hand creeping on to his thigh.

“I think,” Jimmy started, “I mean, I’ve thought for a while, well I’ve been beginning to think that maybe, well not _maybe_ , definitely, I might…” Jimmy was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. Thomas shot to his feet, the rifle raised and ready.

“Jimmy, get his lordship,” Thomas said, “they’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...


	3. Saviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Abbey is besieged and the family decide to flee to York - but will everyone make it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: m/m smut and canon character death. This one's a bit grim.

The sound of shots being fired echoed through the Abbey, drawing staff and family alike from their bedrooms. Jimmy pounded up the main staircase, his eyes on Thomas in the lobby below; he was in the doorway of the library, only his back visible as he took down unknown assailants. Lord Grantham was already halfway along the landing; he aimed his shotgun at Jimmy as he crested the stairs, his finger hovering over the trigger.

“M’lord,” Jimmy cried, “they’re breaking in!”

“Get Branson and Bates,” Lord Grantham ordered, “and hurry up about it.” He made for the stairs, quickening his pace at the sound of another gunshot.

“Thomas,” Jimmy murmured, locked in place by indecision, before tearing himself away from the scene. If he wanted to help Thomas, he needed to get more guns.

“What’s goin’ on?” Branson said, bursting out of the nursery in a panic.

“The villagers – some of them are breaking in to the library,” Jimmy hurriedly replied, “His Lordship sent for you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Branson shook his head, “I have to protect the children.” He pressed a pistol into Jimmy’s hand, his slate eyes on Jimmy’s deep blue ones. “You have to protect the ones you love, at times like this.” With that Branson shut himself in the nursery and Jimmy heard the sound of furniture being pushed up against the door. Jimmy stared at the pistol – it was cold and heavy in his trembling hands. He’d never been able to shoot anyone in the war, but he recalled how he’d plunged a knife into a man’s skull and reasoned if he’d do _that_ for Thomas, he’d probably shoot a man too.

“James,” Bates said, appearing on the gallery and startling Jimmy out of his reverie, “we’re needed, I think.” He gestured downstairs, slinging a rifle over his shoulder and taking to the stairs - Jimmy followed, his heart galloping wildly. There were shouts from the library, followed by a volley of shots and a strangled cry from Lord Grantham. At the sound of his master in distress Bates practically flew down the last few stairs and across the lobby - Jimmy followed apprehensively, holding the gun at arm’s length before him.

The library was a scene of utter destruction; most of the windows were broken and smeared with blood. Books had fallen haphazardly from the stacks and the carpet was littered with ruined white pages, as if a blizzard of paper had passed through the room. Jimmy knew that Thomas would be irritated at the loss of such literature – he’d often waxed lyrical on the quality of the Grantham’s library, even if none of the family actually read anything from it. Lord Grantham was reloading his gun with shaking hands as Thomas wrestled with a gnashing villager - the once-pretty young woman had pinned him against a bookshelf-lined wall and was snapping as his exposed neck. A rotund man Jimmy recognised from the general store was trying to pull himself through one of the smashed windows, but only succeeding in impaling his flesh on the jagged glass as other crazed villagers tried to push in from behind. Bates took to action, firing an accurate blast right into the overweight man’s face. He flopped lifelessly, all but blocking the window.

“Thomas!” Jimmy shrieked, grabbing the woman by her hair and forcibly removing her from the under-butler. Jimmy threw her to the ground and pointed the pistol at her face, hesitating for a moment before shooting her at point-blank range. The recoil shook Jimmy’s arm painfully as the woman’s head exploded into a disgusting gloop resembling a smashed jar of strawberry jam - Jimmy heaved against the back of his hand and turned away.

“Are you hurt?” Thomas said, his hands on Jimmy’s shoulders. Jimmy shook his head, jumping as Lord Grantham finally managed to load his shotgun and still a legless, crawling paperboy.

“This is insane,” Jimmy trembled, “it can’t be real, can it?”

“It’s real enough,” Thomas replied, pulling Jimmy back to protect him as another wave of deranged village folk forced their way into the library.

“Good god,” Lord Grantham shouted, “is there no end?”

~

Ivy shrieked at the first shot, muffled as it was all the way up in the attic. She jumped to her feet, pulling at Daisy’s hand for reassurance.

“Was that a gun goin’ off?” she whispered, her bottom lip trembling.

“How should I know?” Daisy replied. She opened the bedroom door and spilled out into the attic corridor; Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore were talking quickly and quietly, their faces worried.

“I’m sure it’s all under control,” Mrs Hughes said, but her voice cracked on the final word. She’d been through a lot – years of service, cancer, a war – but this was the worst of it all. The assembled staff murmured among themselves, only settling when Carson appeared in the hallway brandishing an old revolver.

“Mr Carson,” Mrs Hughes exclaimed, “where did you get _that_?”

“Ah – it’s a family heirloom,” Carson frowned, “I’ve never used it before, but I have the feeling I might be needing it.”

“I should have a gun as well,” Molesley said, eyeing Mr Carson’s weapon.

“I think we’d all be safer if you didn’t,” Mrs Patmore retorted, raising a quiet giggle from the hall boys.

“Right, everyone back into their rooms – or you can bunk up with someone else if you’d prefer,” Mrs Hughes said.

“I think _I_ should have a gun,” Daisy said as she ushered Ivy back into their room.

“But you’re a girl,” Ivy replied, screwing her nose up.

“I don’t think those monsters care if you’re a boy or a girl, they’ll attack you all the same,” Daisy countered, “an’ I’d definitely be a better shot than _Mr Molesley_.”

“But you said we’d be alright – that Mr Barrow and Jimmy and Mr Bates will protect us,” Ivy said as she picked up a brush from her nightstand and distractedly brushed her cashmere hair.

“Yeah, they will. But who’s gonna protect them, exactly?” Daisy replied.

~

Thomas was beginning to worry that he’d run out of ammo before he ran out of villagers to shoot – they just kept coming, piling through the windows and charging across the book and body-strewn carpet like rabid animals. He was very aware of the proximity of Jimmy’s body; he hung behind the under-butler like a close-fitting robe, his right hand balled in the fabric of Thomas’s shirt, his left holding the pistol out so he could cover the space between Thomas and where Bates was holed up behind the remains of what was once a very nice sofa. Thomas would never have the heart to say it, even if it meant wasting a lot of bullets, but Jimmy was an awful shot – he always fired off to the left, before aiming again and finally hitting the target. Even then Thomas had intervened on more than one occasion to drop a villager who shambled too close for comfort. It was tiring, watching out for Jimmy and himself, and Thomas was terrified for both their lives.

“I’m out!” Lord Grantham called, with the calm-but-urgent tone of one who had seen and lived through war.

“And I’m running short,” Bates added.

“So are they,” Thomas replied. It was true; one final villager pushed through the window – a lanky, oily-faced teenager - only for Thomas to take him out with a crack-shot straight to the forehead. The four men breathed a heavy sigh of relief when no more walking corpses appeared at the windows.

“Good shot Barrow,” Grantham appraised.

“Thank you, milord,” Thomas answered calmly, as if he had just been commended for serving a particularly nice cup of tea. Jimmy was grim-faced, his lips pressed into a tight line – he looked _terrified_. “We’re alright now Jimmy,” Thomas said, reassuring the footman with a pat on the shoulder, “for now anyway.”

“Things appear to be more serious than we’d thought,” Lord Grantham said, surveying the carnage in the library.

“I don’t think we should stay here,” Jimmy interjected. “In the morning we should go – to Ripon or – or York. Just somewhere _else_.”

“I think he’s right milord,” Bates agreed. “It’s not safe here – not for the women and children.”

“I have to agree,” Lord Grantham nodded. “We can decide what to do in the morning. Bates and I will board up these windows and keep watch for the rest of the night – you two should get some rest, after all you’ve been though in the past two days.”

“Thank you milord,” Thomas nodded, glad of the opportunity for a little rest – the last thing he wanted was to have to climb over all the corpses to nail bits of broken furniture to the windows. He wearily led Jimmy up to the servants’ corridor in the attic; Jimmy didn’t release his grip on the under-butler’s shirt until they were outside his bedroom door. Mrs Hughes was loitering in the corridor, checking on the house maids and hall boys.

“Thomas, Jimmy – what on earth is going on downstairs?” Mrs Hughes asked.

“Some of the villagers paid us a visit,” Thomas replied. “I wouldn’t go in the library if I were you Mrs Hughes.”

“Oh my,” Mrs Hughes murmured – Thomas had never seen her look so worried. “And it’s safe now?”

“No,” Jimmy said, “not really.”

“It’s as safe as it’s going to get,” Thomas added, throwing Jimmy a look that spoke volumes.

“Well, that’s the best we can hope for in these unusual circumstances,” Mrs Hughes shook her head. “Perhaps I should ask his lordship if _I_ can have a rifle.” She smiled benignly at the two young men, noticing how Jimmy seemed to lean into Thomas’s space – how his eyes kept flicking to the under-butler’s face, as if he was reassured by Thomas’s calm expression. “Well, I suppose I should try to rest,” the housekeeper added, “though I don’t know how much anyone can sleep when all this madness is going on.” She nodded goodnight to Thomas and Jimmy, then retired to her room.

“You need to sleep,” Thomas directed, “you might not get another chance for a while.”

“I’m exhausted,” Jimmy replied quietly, “but I can’t – Thomas, I’m too afraid to sleep.”

“I’ll be just down the corridor,” Thomas started, but Jimmy shook his head.

“No, that’s not close enough – not if something happens,” he looked away, abashed. “Thomas – will you stay with me tonight? I – I need you.”

Thomas didn’t hesitate: “Yes, if you want me to.”

Jimmy just nodded and held open his bedroom door to allow Thomas inside – _now_ the under-butler hesitated; he hadn’t been inside Jimmy’s room since the ‘incident’ and he still felt some trepidation at crossing the threshold into Jimmy’s private territory.

“It’s alright, you can go in,” Jimmy said, “I’m not going to throw you out again.” Thomas nodded and apprehensively walked into Jimmy’s room – it was untidy, with clothes hanging out of drawers and a pile of dirty garments thrown haphazardly onto the desk chair. Jimmy hurried around, hastily shoving things into his closet and kicking a pile of books under his bed. “Sorry,” he muttered, “it’s not normally like this, I swear.”

“Don’t worry,” Thomas smiled, “I’m not going to report you to Carson or anything.” He looked around for somewhere to sit, but the chair was draped in clothing so he settled for the end of the bed.

“You never would,” Jimmy grinned, sitting next to him. “Can I have a cig?”

“Sure,” Thomas located the pack of _Black Cats_ in his trouser pocket – there was only one slightly squashed cigarette left in the packet. He handed it off to the footman, “I have another pack in my room…” Thomas began, but Jimmy shook his head.

“We can share,” he said, sticking the tip between his lips. He leant in so Thomas could light it with his zippo; when Thomas obliged he caught the under-butler’s right hand between his own and held it for a moment before silently resting it on his thigh. Thomas’s heart fluttered; he was careful to keep his hand completely still, although that was difficult when it was situated so close to Jimmy’s crotch. Jimmy sucked on the cigarette before scissoring it between his fingers and holding it up to Thomas’s mouth; his digits were trembling as they pressed against the under-butler’s red lips. Thomas inhaled, his breath coming in a ragged bursts, regardless of how hard he tried to keep it even.

“Jimmy,” Thomas said around the cigarette – Jimmy pulled his hand away and discarded the half-smoked cig, dumping it in an empty teacup on his bedside table. His eyes were dark and his left leg jumped up and down, jostling against Thomas’s right. They sat in a thick, loaded silence for a long minute before Jimmy cracked and grabbed Thomas’s face with both hands, mashing their lips together in a wholly unromantic kiss.

“Shut up,” Jimmy said against Thomas’s mouth, “we might _die_ and I can’t die without doin’ this, alright?”

Thomas nodded and pressed his mouth against Jimmy’s – Jimmy was right, they might well die. If he got to spend the night with Jimmy – kissing him or just holding him, or _whatever_ , then that was alright with him. Even if it was just for one night.

“Stop thinkin’,” Jimmy pulled away from the kiss and inspected Thomas’s face; he ran the fingertips of his left hand, rough from work, over Thomas’s cheekbones. “I can hear you thinkin’ and worryin’.”

“Sorry,” Thomas replied, his voice a lot rougher than he would have liked.

“Do I really make you so – so,” Jimmy shrugged, “y’know, _nervous_?” Thomas only nodded – he didn’t trust himself to speak on the matter. “But why?” Jimmy pressed, “You’ve done this – an’ more no doubt – before.”

“You know why,” Thomas said – he flinched at the memory of when he’d uttered those words previously, lying on his sickbed after taking the beating meant for Jimmy.

“Still? Even now, after so long?” Jimmy shook his head. “You’re – you’re _soft_ y’know,” but he was smiling, albeit thinly. He pressed his left palm against Thomas’s chest, right over his heart. “I didn’t dare hope you would still have _affection_ for me – I thought we were just mates.”

“Of course we’re mates,” Thomas said. “But yes I – I still love you, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, good,” Jimmy replied simply. He kissed Thomas again and tangled his hands in the under-butler’s hair; Thomas allowed himself to wrap his arms around Jimmy’s back and to slip his tongue between Jimmy’s slightly parted lips. “Hnnng,” Jimmy groaned and the sound travelled straight to Thomas’s cock. “Tell me again – that you love me.”

“I love you,” Thomas said breathlessly, “I love you so much.”

“Oh _Thomas_ ,” Jimmy replied. He pushed Thomas down into the sagging mattress and lay atop the under-butler, all the while planting firm kisses on his cheeks and lips and neck. Thomas was already _hard_ , almost painfully so, and rather conscious that it might be too much for Jimmy; his anxiety was relieved when he felt Jimmy’s own undeniable erection press against his inner thigh. “It’s so – uhnn – _good_ ,” Jimmy whispered – and he rutted up against Thomas, the bedsprings groaning in protest. To Thomas, the feeling of Jimmy’s body pressed against him – _his_ Jimmy, who he’d dreamed about and desired and pined after for so long – was unbelievably good. They moved together, hips grinding, mindlessly kissing and touching, until Thomas knew he could bear it no longer.

“Jimmy,” he panted, his hips bucking uncontrollably upwards, “if you keep doin’ that, I won’t – I won’t be able to stop meself from,” he pulled a face that he hoped conveyed his meaning.

“Oh,” Jimmy smiled – his lips were swollen and red, his eyes dark and unfocussed, “that’s – that’s ok. I want _that_.” He bought one muscled thigh up between Thomas’s legs and rocked his body rhythmically against the under-butler; the friction was glorious.

“Uhhhn, hnng, _Jimmy_ ,” Thomas whimpered, his hands pulling at the fabric of Jimmy’s shirt. They were both still fully clothed and what they were doing was _mild_ compared to acts Thomas had engaged in before, but somehow this moment – of desire and fear and desperate need – was the most erotic of his life. “Jimmy, Jimmy – oh _Jimmy_ ,” he repeated, as if the boy’s name was a mantra, and came; his body arching off the sheets, shaking. Jimmy wrapped his arms around Thomas’s back and held him against his chest until the tremors subsided.

“Alright then?” Jimmy asked almost coyly, as if he hadn’t just dry humped Thomas to completion. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against Thomas’s bottom lip and smiled, seemingly pleased with his handiwork.

“Alright,” Thomas managed to reply; he was boneless and warm and stupidly happy. Jimmy sat up, the line of his erection clearly visible through his trousers, and for an awful moment Thomas thought he was going to leave - but Jimmy merely shifted his position so he was kneeling over Thomas’s thighs. He fixed Thomas with a lascivious look and ran his index finger slowly over the seam of his trousers before slipping one hand inside his own waistband – Thomas gaped at the sight of Jimmy stroking himself and made sure to commit the look of sheer abandon on his face to memory.

“Jimmy, let me,” Thomas started, but Jimmy pressed his right palm against Thomas’s abdomen to keep him in place whist maintaining a jerky rhythm with his left hand. Thomas acquiesced – after all, Jimmy _was_ bringing himself off whilst looking right at him; if he had been younger, Thomas supposed he would have been hard again himself by now.

“Thomas,” Jimmy hissed, “say it again.”

“I love you Jimmy,” Thomas answered.

“Hng, _Thomas_ , Jimmy grunted, his hand now bumping around roughly inside his trousers. Thomas gripped Jimmy by the hips to steady him and rubbed his thumbs against the taut skin of his abdomen.

“I _love_ you, Jimmy,” Thomas repeated and Jimmy stilled, every muscle in his body extended to the point of pain, his head thrown back.

“Thomas – I - I love _you_ ,” Jimmy moaned and came, shuddering and hard, into his hand. He slumped forwards and draped himself over Thomas, pressing a lethargic kiss against his neck.

Thomas enveloped Jimmy in his arms and smiled; if he died tomorrow, he’d die a happy man. “Jimmy that were _wonderful_ ,” he said.

“Shut it,” Jimmy replied tersely, “you’re _awful_ and I _love_ you.”

~

Thomas and Jimmy were woken the next morning by one of the hall boys rapping loudly at Jimmy’s bedroom door and for a moment it seemed like any other day in service. Except, of course, they were snuggled together in Jimmy’s cot, with the evidence of last night’s activities drying in both of their trousers.

And not forgetting the whole end of the world situation.

“Mornin’,” Thomas said gruffly; he really needed a smoke. “We better get a move on.”

Jimmy scrunched his eyes shut and groaned: “Ugh, can’t we just stay in this bed until it all blows over?”

“As much as I’d love to, I’m afraid not,” Thomas yawned. “And you were pretty eager to leave yesterday.”

“That were _yesterday_ ,” Jimmy said, pulling the covers over his head.

“I need a wash,” Thomas stated. “I’m going to get cleaned up and then find out what’s what, alright?”

“Mmmmhmm,” Jimmy groaned; and when he made no move to get up Thomas left him to his own devices.

After speedily washing and changing into some less soiled trousers, Thomas met Branson, Bates and Lord Grantham in the lobby. Lady Mary and Lady Edith were both standing off to one side, dressed in riding jodhpurs and coats. Mary was holding a shotgun over her arm and Thomas was caught by how incongruous it looked to see an earl’s daughter dressed like a farmhand – and a _male_ farmhand at that.

“Ah, Barrow,” Lord Grantham said, “good, you’re here. Bates is taking Mary and Edith to collect my mother from the Dowager house,” he frowned, as if he disagreed with the plan – though if Mary was involved, he probably hadn’t had a choice in the matter. “Edith is going to _drive_ ,” he added with distain.

“I drove in the war Papa,” Edith interjected, “and this is a war of sorts, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Lord Grantham replied. “That means myself, Tom, you and James can go down to the village to look for Isobel – leaving Carson and Molesley here to hold the fort.”

Thomas nodded; whilst he wasn’t exactly eager to go back to the village, his own plan made it necessary. “Milord, if we’re going to the village I suggest we borrow the bus that’s parked there – we can use it to get everyone out of here,” he said.

“That’s a good idea,” Bates said, “and I think we should make for York – there’s bound to be someone there who knows what’s going on.”

“Then it’s settled,” Lord Grantham nodded, clearly relieved to have a proper plan in place.

~

Jimmy had taken some convincing, but had finally agreed to accompany the others to the village when Thomas promised that it would be fine – they had guns and they must’ve killed half the townspeople last night in their own library. The walk down was, thankfully, uneventful and when they reached the village it was eerily still – it looked just how it had when Thomas and Jimmy had fled the previous day, minus the mob of walking cadavers. Lord Grantham walked out into the middle of the green and turned a full circle, surveying the scope of the damage.

“It’s very quiet,” he said, shielding his eyes from the sun and peering into the distance.

“Careful,” Thomas warned, “it was like this before – then they came lumberin’ out from all over the place.” Jimmy tightened his grip on his pistol and inched closer to the under-butler.

“That’s the bus then?” Tom said, gesturing with his rifle, “It’s sort of…banged up.” On closer inspection the bus was rather damaged; it seemed the driver had ploughed into one of the villagers and put a big, red-stained dent in the front of the bonnet. The windscreen was cracked, but still holding together.

“The whole world seems somewhat _banged up_ ,” Lord Grantham added, “we’ll have to make do.”

“I thought you were _good_ with motors anyway, _sir,_ ” Jimmy added, with a tad more insouciance than he would normally risk. Thomas gave him a wry smile.

“I am,” Branson replied, “but not when they’ve been _wrecked_.” He examined the exterior damage then disappeared under the bus, presumably to check the engine.

“Right,” Lord Grantham said, taking on the air of the military commander he once was. “James – you stay here and help Tom. Barrow – let’s see if we can find what’s happened to Mrs Crawley.”

“But – I,” Jimmy made to protest but Thomas shook his head, “yes milord.” He finished weakly and watched, a feeling of dread creeping through his veins, as Thomas and Lord Grantham walked away.

~

The prettily painted door of the Crawley house hung open and was spattered with the unmistakable dark red of dried blood; _that’s probably a bad sign_ , Thomas thought dryly.

“Mrs Crawley?” Lord Grantham called in hushed tones, pushing open the door and heading into the dim hallway. “Isobel?” There was no sign of the lady, nor of her small staff – unless you counted the bloody handprints on the wallpaper.

“Milord,” Thomas said, his rifle raised and ready, “I’ll look upstairs.” Lord Grantham nodded in agreement and Thomas took the stairs warily - checking left and right when he reached the landing and somehow managing to keep the tremor out of his hand, for once glad of his military training. The upstairs of the house showed evidence of a struggle – an overturned end-table, a smashed vase, a spotty trail of blood leading to one of the half-closed bedroom doors.

“Mrs – Mrs Crawley?” Thomas whispered, easing open the door in question – the thick, avocado-coloured drapes were drawn, shrouding the room in a murky green darkness that hung in the corners like spider webs. Mrs Crawley staggered from the furthest corner of the room and threw herself onto the bed, dripping gore onto the once-expensive coverlet, and gasping horribly. Thomas took a jerky step back onto the landing, avoiding her outstretched and grasping hands, only to trip on the upended table and fall heavily on his backside. Mrs Crawley pulled herself off the bed, her movements unnatural and spasmodic, her hair falling untidily over her bloodied face. “Shit – **shit** ,” Thomas exclaimed, scooting backwards and raising the rifle – Mrs Crawley lunged at him and he fired into her chest at point-blank range – she fell backwards, not _dead_ but merely stunned from the force of the blast. The shot sounded thunderous in the enclosed hallway and Thomas was momentarily deafened by it.

“Barrow!” Lord Grantham called as he charged up the stairs, his voice sounding as if it was coming from underwater. He stopped for a moment – obviously distressed at the scene – before pulling Thomas to his feet. The under-butler hissed at the pain in his ankle; he must’ve twisted it as he fell.

“It’s not her anymore,” Thomas said, “she’s – Mrs Crawley is _gone_.”

“I know,” Lord Grantham said grimly, and he raised his rifle.

~

“That was a gunshot,” Jimmy said, staring up at the Crawley house, “Branson – is it ready?”

“I need a minute,” Branson said from his position beneath the bus – only his legs were visible, but Jimmy could imagine the look of mild irritation he often saw on the erstwhile chauffer’s face.

Jimmy peered around the village, looking for the inevitable onslaught of insane, undead and blood-thirsty villagers. He saw flash of movement – of pale, outstretched arms and twisted faces – from between the houses. “I don’t think you have a minute!” he said, throwing himself down behind the bus, “they’re coming!”

If the first shot had alerted the former villagers to their presence, the second acted like a homing beacon, drawing stalking, hunched residents from their hiding places and towards the Crawley house.

Branson rolled out from under the bus and crouched beside Jimmy. “Where?” he mouthed silently and Jimmy pointed towards the houses at the other side of the green – Branson risked a look over the bonnet and quickly ducked back down, his face pale. “We have to go – now!” he whispered, “Jimmy, get on the bus!”

“Not without Thomas,” Jimmy shook his head defiantly, “and Lord Grantham.”

“Alright,” Branson said, “draw them away,” – he gestured towards the moaning, shuffling crowd of villagers – “and I’ll get Robert and Thomas.”

“I – ok,” Jimmy nodded grimly; whilst playing bait wasn’t his idea of a _good_ plan, they had to do _something_. And Jimmy was confident he could outrun those things, as long as he didn’t get himself cornered. He took a deep breath, mentally counted to three, and threw himself out from behind the bus. There were perhaps ten or twelve villagers, in various disgusting states of decay, milling around the green – some were almost within touching distance of the bus and the perimeter of the Crawley house. “Hey!” Jimmy shouted – every head snapped to attention, clouded and bloodshot eyes suddenly focussed on the footman. “You stupid, ugly _rubes_ ,” Jimmy yelled with a slightly manic grin, “come and get me!”

The villagers obliged.

~

Thomas stared at the pool where Mrs Crawley’s head used to be and fought down the urge to vomit. “We should go,” he said, “if there’s any more of _them_ about, they’ll have heard those shots.” He tried his ankle out, putting a little weight on it, and winced – he could walk, but it was painful. He was surprised when Lord Grantham threw an arm around his shoulder and helped him hobble down the stairs. Branson burst in through the front door, a stricken look on his face.

“There’s trouble,” he said, “we have to go.”

Lord Grantham and Thomas followed Branson out into the Crawley garden – Thomas squinted against the bright morning sunlight; the pleasant weather was an alarming juxtaposition to the current state of the world. Then, as his vision slowly came into focus, he spotted the unmistakable shape of Jimmy running across the green – followed by a hoard of gnashing, stumbling village folk; if it hadn’t been so horribly terrifying, the sight would have been _hilarious_.

“What’s he doing?” Thomas hissed.

“Buying us some time,” Branson replied. He strode over to the bus and began to crank the engine – the country buses were all older models and still needed to be manually cranked to start them. All three men breathed a sigh of relief when he bus stuttered and then finally coughed into life. Branson climbed aboard and took the wheel, followed closely by Lord Grantham.

“Jimmy!” Thomas shouted and motioned to the blond footman – he was still leading the groaning villagers in a merry dance around the green. A few of the stragglers looked dimly towards the bus and Thomas, torn between following Jimmy and breaking away from the pack to make for other prey.

“They aint too bright!” Jimmy panted, red faced from the exertion of galloping up and down. He trotted backwards, grinning cockily at the under-butler, not realising he was backing himself up to the graveyard wall. “Ugh – _shit_ ,” Jimmy exclaimed as his back came up against the rough brickwork.

“Turn the bus around and get ready to go,” Thomas shouted to Branson, “Circle if you have to! I’ll get Jimmy.” Branson nodded and pulled the bus away – Thomas ran, keeping his body close to the Crawley house wall, and made his way towards Jimmy. His ankle screamed at every step, but he wouldn’t stop - not when Jimmy needed him.

Jimmy pulled himself up onto the graveyard wall as the hoard closed in, moaning and pulling at his clothes. He was stuck – the tall iron railings that topped the wall stopping him from climbing over and into the graveyard proper. He was _just_ out of reach – thankfully the walking dead villagers hadn’t yet mastered the skill of climbing. Instead they groaned and gnashed their teeth and reached for Jimmy with their rotting hands, their fingertips brushing his toes. Whether they could reach him or not was somewhat of a moot point – he couldn’t get off the wall and could only move three feet to the right or left until his path was blocked by a stone pillar.

“Thomas!” Jimmy shrieked, panicking. He aimed his pistol at the nearest creature – what used to be a middle-aged woman - and fired; the bullet slammed into her face and she crumpled to the ground. The other ex-villagers simply climbed over her, showing no concern at losing one of their number. Jimmy fired again and another body dropped – he repeated the action twice more until the gun merely clicked weakly; Jimmy was out of ammunition. “Bugger,” he said, and shoved the useless weapon in his pocket.

Thomas surveyed Jimmy’s predicament – there was nothing for it. He raised his rifle and fired, picking off one of the villagers from the cover of an abandoned market stall. Jimmy flinched at the sound of the shot and swayed precariously, grasping at the railings, but it was no use; he tumbled forwards into the waiting crowd of monsters.

“JIMMY!” Thomas screamed and ran headfirst at the mob, taking out a pair of the creatures with two quick shots. He turned his rifle sideways and used it as a battering ram to push the crowd back – a couple of the villagers fell backwards over the bodies of their fallen brethren and Thomas saw a flash of Jimmy’s golden hair amongst the tangle of limbs. “Jimmy, get out of there!” Thomas shouted, pushing against the hoard – a well-dressed woman with a bloodied, gaping hole where her left eye should have been grabbed Thomas’s jacket with bent and putrid fingers. Jimmy scrabbled on his hands and knees, crawling desperately away from the stench of the decomposing crowd, and somehow managed to get free of the throng. More hands took hold of Thomas’s jacket and trousers and suddenly the gun was pulled from his hands.

“Run Jimmy!” Thomas cried, struggling against the mob. “Run – go! GO!” - his eyes were desperate, his voice pleading. Thomas screamed in pain and Jimmy lingered, torn between survival and the man he loved. “J-Jimmy GO!” Thomas shouted again, and Jimmy turned on his heel and ran. The bus was waiting at the far end of the green and the footman fumbled on board with numb hands and shaking legs.

“We have to go back,” Jimmy panted, “for Thomas, _please_.”

“James,” Lord Grantham said, “there’s nothing – nothing we can do now.” Branson pulled the bus away and Jimmy made a half-hearted attempt to get off - to go back for Thomas – to do _something_ , but Lord Grantham grabbed him around the waist with surprising strength.

“Let me go!” Jimmy cried, thrashing out blindly. “I have – ugh – I _have_ to go back!”

“It’s too late,” Lord Grantham shushed, his arms still tight around Jimmy’s torso.

“But _Thomas_ ,” Jimmy whimpered, “he’s – he’s…”

“He’s gone,” Lord Grantham said, quietly, “I’m sorry James. He’s _gone_.”

Jimmy went very still, the reality of it hitting him squarely in the chest. Thomas – _his_ Thomas – who he now knew he _loved_ more than anything, was _dead_. Lord Grantham released the footman from his grasp and Jimmy fell to his knees in the aisle of the old bus and wept.

~

The bus was greeted with whoops and cheers from the mixed group waiting at the Abbey – the Dowager and her Butler Mr Spratt were now also among their number; it seemed Bates, Mary and Edith’s rescue mission had gone off without a hitch. The celebrations abruptly stopped, however, when only three men emerged from the motor.

“Where’s Thomas?” Mrs Hughes asked immediately, although from observing the appearance of the first footman it was blindingly obvious that something _awful_ had happened; his cheeks were tear-stained and his shoulders shook with silent sobs.

“He – ah, he didn’t make it Mrs Hughes,” Lord Grantham said flatly.

“Oh my,” Mrs Hughes gasped and Anna clung to Bates’s arm in distress.

“What happened?” Carson probed, his stony face grimmer than usual.

“He saved my life,” Jimmy said with a hitched breath, “again. And this time I got him killed.”

“Oh Jimmy,” Ivy started and made to put her arm around the footman, but Daisy pulled her back by the elbow and silenced her with a fierce frown.

“He wouldn’t have had it any other way and you know it,” Mrs Patmore said, “he wasn’t the sort to go down without a fight.”

“He were brave,” Daisy added, her voice trembling, “he could be _awful,_ but he was clever an’ funny, an’ I were fond of him.” Baxter broke down into quiet tears and Molesley patted her shoulder timidly.

“I always liked Barrow,” the Dowager said and everyone stared at her sceptically. “There’s no need to look so scandalised,” she tutted, “I am capable of delivering a compliment. But may I suggest we keep the soliloquising and inevitable lauding of his many great deeds until later, when we are in a less _perilous_ situation?”

“Mother is right,” Lord Grantham stated, “we should get to York as soon as possible.” Jimmy turned and silently boarded the bus – he shuffled all the way to the back seat and sat, staring numbly out of the side window. “Well,” Lord Grantham coughed awkwardly, “he’ll be alright with time, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know about that,” Mary said, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was _heartbroken_.”

“Mary!” Cora exclaimed.

“Oh mother, don’t be so naïve,” Mary waved off her objections. “The _dead_ are walking around and trying to kill us. I shall never be shocked again.”

~

Thomas watched Jimmy run, his muscled legs pumping and his blonde hair shining like spun gold in the morning sunlight, and fought the remaining villagers off long enough to see the footman reach the bus. Jimmy was _safe_ and _alive_ and that was all that mattered – if his own life was forfeit, then so be it. He was resigned to his fate – there were too many clawing hands and snapping teeth, some already tearing at his thick overcoat, for him to live through this one.

“I love you, Jimmy Kent,” Thomas muttered, a stubborn tear falling down one pale, hollow cheek as he closed his eyes and waited.

The shotgun blast came as somewhat of a surprise.

Thomas missed the sight of the first round going off, but he _felt_ it in his bones. And he _felt_ the splash of blood and bone fragments and brains hit the side of his face as the villager’s head exploded into a vile puree. He _saw_ the second blast, as the creature to his left dropped into a puddle of its own innards, and he watched, his mouth opening and closing with incredulity as the mob of villagers was reduced to two, then one, and then wiped out altogether. Thomas pushed the mangled corpses away, freeing himself from dead-but-still-grasping-hands, and was stunned to see a young girl of no more than about twelve or thirteen reloading the aforementioned shotgun with a practiced proficiency.

“Did y’get bit then?” The girl said, aiming both barrels squarely at the under-butler. Her face was streaked with dirt and blood and her auburn hair fell in matted, tumbling waves around her face. She was pretty, but her expression was hard.

“No – I don’t know,” Thomas replied. He shrugged off his ruined overcoat and checked both arms, then both legs – bruised but somehow not bitten. “No, I’m not bitten. So you can put _that_ down,” he gestured towards the gun, but the girl just scowled.

“I saved y’life,” she said, “an’ I’ve got the gun, so I think y’should do what _I_ say.”

“Alright,” Thomas put his hands up in a placating gesture, “I’m Thomas – what’s your name?”

“Lily,” the girl answered. “I know you – you work up at the big house, dontcha?”

“I do,” Thomas nodded, then stopped - there was an unmistakeable groaning from the copse at one side of the village and it sounded like a _lot_ of them – whatever _they_ were. Lily noticed immediately, her head cocking to one side to listen to the sound of the advancing cadavers.

“We should go,” Lily stated flatly, “I’m low on shells. Can’t keep rescuin’ ya.” She walked away, seemingly unafraid, and the under-butler followed, glad of the protection from this odd, darkly capable child.

“Where are we going Lily?” Thomas asked. The girl was young, yes, but she had survived _and_ she had saved his life. She was obviously more competent than most of the adult population of Downton.

“Home,” Lily replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy - I'm sorry! Of course Thomas isn't dead, I couldn't do that to you. 
> 
> Seriously though, I want to apologise to anyone who was waiting for me to update this. I suck, I know.


	4. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst Jimmy mourns the 'death' of Thomas, the under-butler is left holding the baby. Daisy and Ivy have a heart-to-heart about love and someone's story comes to an untimely end...
> 
> *Warning for character death!* (Well it is a zombie fic...)

Jimmy honestly couldn’t remember anything about the journey to York except the coolness of the window against his left cheek and the way the vibration of the engine seemed to reverberate through the hollow cavity of his chest. He assumed they had run into trouble at one point or another as he had a vague recollection of the bus coming to a thudding halt and of gunshots and screaming, but he hadn’t even opened his eyes to check. It didn’t matter now – nothing mattered. It was only when Mrs Hughes shook him persistently but kindly that he forced himself to focus.

“James,” the housekeeper smiled, “we made it to York.” Her pale face and uncharacteristically unkempt hair further suggested that the trip had been difficult.

“Oh,” he replied flatly, not meeting her eye. He peered out of the window, having no idea how long the ride had taken them – the streetlights weren’t yet lit but the sun had already fallen below the rooftops, suggesting it was already early evening. The street outside was empty, the house windows dark.

“This doesn’t look right,” Branson said, “York’s never so quiet.”

“Look there,” Grantham interrupted, “Police constables.” Sure enough, there were three police men at a makeshift roadblock just ahead of them. They waved down the bus.

“Stop there!” One constable shouted. Jimmy noticed they were carrying pistols.

“We’ve come from Downton,” Grantham replied, opening the bus doors. “Something awful has happened there, a sort of _plague_ I suppose.”

“There too?” The constable asked, his face grim. “It’s movin’ mighty fast throughout all Yorkshire.”

“Goodness,” Grantham exclaimed, “any news from elsewhere?”

“London’s got it too, bad as well,” the constable answered. “Don’t know ‘bout nowhere else though.”

“What’s being done then?” Mary interjected.

“Army’s bein’ bought in Miss,” the constable said. “We’re keepin’ peace best we can until then. People have been charged to stay in their homes. Refugees and displaced folk are bein’ put up in _The_ _Regent Hotel_ fer now – it’s just past the blockade. That’s yer best bet.”

“You have our thanks,” Grantham nodded, and the police waved them through the barricade. Branson pulled the bus up in amongst the chaos outside _The_ _Regent_ – there were cars discarded at both sides of the street and a small crowd had gathered near the front door. The family and staff exited the motor and joined the fray – Jimmy dragged himself out of his seat lingered at the rear of the group. Daisy tried to catch his eye but he couldn’t bear to talk to her; she’d be kind and try to comfort him, but it was too soon. Thomas’s death was his fault – he didn’t deserve her gentle words.

“Look here,” said another police officer curtly, this one notably more senior by the look of his uniform. “You’ll all have to just wait your turn to get in – we need to check none of you ‘ave the disease!”

“So we’re jus’ s’posed to stand out ‘ere catchin’ our deaths an’ waitin’ to be attacked then?” one of the crowd heckled.

“You’re perfectly safe here,” the officer replied, “York’s finest are guarding the street.” Jimmy didn’t consider this to be much of a comfort, but the crowd quieted down to an ill-contented murmur. Lord Grantham pushed through the throng and addressed the officer in hushed tones – Jimmy suspected that Grantham was using his position and possibly his money in order to speed up the process. The police officer nodded and Grantham gestured for the household to follow him into the lobby.

_The_ _Regent Hotel_ was much nicer a place than Jimmy could ever afford and was probably the sort of place the family would stay, should the need ever arise. The lobby floor was inlaid with polished marble and the walls panelled with rich mahogany – Jimmy felt as if he should be at work, rather than looking for a place to sleep. After a brief conversation with the manager Lord Grantham returned with a bunch of keys in his gloved hand.

“Right, I’ve managed to acquire some rooms, though I’m afraid there’s not enough for all of us to have our own.” Lord Grantham said. He went on to explain how the family would be sharing the use of two suites, and the male and female servants would have a room or two to share – they’d have to ‘bunk up’ as Grantham put it, but at least they’d be safe. Jimmy considered how even now, during what seemed to be the Armageddon, class distinctions and bloody propriety were still given more attention than they ever deserved. He silently followed Carson to their assigned rooms – he’d be sharing with Bates and Molesley. Sleeping in the bus almost seemed a better alternative.

~

Thomas followed Lily to the outskirts of the village, limping on his increasingly painful ankle. Her home was a smallholding surrounded by green fields dotted with the unmistakable cloudlike forms of sheep.

“So, you’re sheep farmers?” Thomas asked, although the answer was obvious. They’d been walking in an uncomfortable silence for fifteen minutes and Thomas said it merely as an excuse to _talk_. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jimmy – the footman probably thought Thomas was dead, pulled apart by those awful creatures. _He must be going through hell_ , Thomas grimaced.

“Shh,” Lily hissed, “you have to keep quiet unless you wanna lead more of them here.”

“Sorry,” Thomas mouthed, rather miffed to have been reprimanded by a child.

“Yes, we have sheep,” Lily whispered. She nimbly climbed over a stile and Thomas followed, rather less gracefully. “Pa used to look after ‘em but I don’t ‘spose he will be now.”

“Oh?” Thomas replied – he was afraid to ask why because the answer was blindingly obvious.

“He’s dead now,” Lily finished, “and Ma too.” Her voice cracked on ‘Ma’ and she turned away.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, although he knew it wasn’t enough – what could he possibly say to comfort a child whose parents had been attacked by those monsters? It wasn’t something anyone should have to live through, let alone a little girl.

“So I am,” Lily sniffed. “Look,” she pointed the gun towards a small farmhouse situated half-way up a low hill, “home.”

“What were you doing all the way down in the village?” Thomas asked as they strode through a meadow. “You knew it was dangerous to be there.”

“Good luck that I was there – you’d have been ripped to little bits if I weren’t,” she replied tersely, “and I needed somethin’.” She opened the front of her oversized coat to reveal a bottle of milk stuffed into the inside pocket.

“Milk?” Thomas frowned. “You risked your life for milk?”

Lily shrugged, “You’ll see why.” She led Thomas up the dirt driveway and to the front door, her cautious eyes darting right and left as she went. Lily fished the key out from under the mat and unlocked the door. “Come on,” she said, “it’s safe in here – I checked.”

“Alright,” Thomas acquiesced – he’d rather have checked the house himself, but Lily did seem quite capable of taking care of herself. She locked the door behind them and leant her shotgun up against the hallway wall, before darting up the staircase two steps at a time. Thomas followed cautiously as Lily disappeared into one of the bedrooms – it was a child’s room, decorated in soft pastels and pine furniture.

“Lily – what?” Thomas was interrupted by Lily placing her grubby index finger against his lips in the universal sign for ‘shush’. She pointed to the cot in the corner and Thomas peered over the edge – sure enough there was a baby, no more than six months old, sleeping peacefully inside.

“See why I needed milk?” Lily whispered. Thomas nodded, suddenly very aware that he was now responsible for _two_ children, one of whom couldn’t even walk and was liable to cry at inopportune moments. For all his apparent lack of concern for others, even Thomas couldn’t let two _children_ go it alone, especially not with the current state of the world.

“He’s very cute,” Thomas said, “what’s his name?”

“Freddie,” Lily replied, “and I’m all he’s got left so I gotta protect him.”

~

Once again, Daisy found herself sharing a room with Ivy – worse than that, sharing a _bed_ with her, due to lack of space in the rooms the staff had been assigned. There was also Miss Baxter, Anna and a couple of housemaids, all squeezed into a lovely but now very overcrowded hotel room – next door was Mrs Hughes, Mrs Patmore and a handful of assorted maids. Daisy supposed she was still lucky to be alive, all things considered, so she _should_ be grateful.

“I can’t believe this is all real,” Ivy said, fidgeting. Her feet were cold against Daisy’s legs.

“I know what you mean,” Daisy replied, “I don’t seem possible.”

“And it’s so sad about Mr Barrow,” Ivy frowned. “He were never very nice to me, but he didn’t deserve what happened.”

“I – I liked Thomas – he were alright really,” Daisy said.

“He was troubled,” Anna interjected, “but he wasn’t a bad sort at heart.”

“Do you think Jimmy is very upset?” Ivy sat up and turned on her bedside lamp but Daisy didn’t complain – sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. “Mr Barrow and him were thick as thieves this past year, weren’t they? And what d’ya think Lady Mary meant about Jimmy being heartbroken?” Ivy asked – Daisy just glared at her and Miss Baxter remained silent.

“They were close,” Anna said sadly, “I think Jimmy…Jimmy will miss him very much. And he blames himself.”

“But,” Ivy started, only to be cut off by Anna.

“We should try to sleep at least,” Anna said, “who knows what tomorrow will bring.” Ivy turned off her light and settled down, her knees pressed against Daisy’s.

“Daisy,” she whispered, “are you asleep?”

“Yes,” Daisy replied and Ivy tutted.

“I still don’t understand what Lady Mary meant,” Ivy said, shaking her head. Daisy propped herself up on one elbow, resigned to the fact that she wouldn’t get any peace until she answered Ivy’s questions.

“I were sweet on Mr Barrow once,” Daisy said, “back when I was just a girl. He took me out to the fair and taught me dances an’ everythin’ – I was convinced we were goin’ to be sweethearts.”

“You an’ Mr Barrow?” Ivy giggled, “What happened?”

“I weren’t his _type_ ,” Daisy said, “Mrs Patmore had tried to tell me but I didn’t understand for ages. Mr Barrow – Thomas – he wasn’t really a _ladies man_.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ivy protested.

“He were ah – a troubled soul, y’know?” Daisy hissed, but Ivy just frowned dumbly.

“He loved Jimmy,” Baxter said flatly, “he was in love with him. The thing about Thomas was – he felt everything more strongly; hate, anger, fear, but especially love. He knew how to love.”

“Oh,” Ivy said, “and – and Jimmy loves Mr Barrow?”

“Yes,” Anna nodded, “I think he does.”

Ivy opened and closed her mouth several times as if to speak, but couldn’t find the words. There was a long silence.

“Poor Jimmy,” Ivy said finally, “poor, poor Jimmy.”

~

Jimmy had been assigned a chamber with Bates, Molesley and a couple of terrified-looking hall boys, but he couldn’t stand being in the room with them all – Bates kept throwing him pitying looks and Molesley was relentless with his stupid questions, to the point where Jimmy stormed out under the pretext of finding some cigarettes. Even after he purchased some from the lobby he still couldn’t bring himself to smoke, no matter how his body craved the nicotine – the act itself, and the accompanying smell, would be too much of a reminder of Thomas to ever be pleasurable again. Jimmy mused that one day, when the grief wasn’t so near, he might smoke as an ‘aide-mémoire’ so he didn’t forget the way Thomas’s lips had tasted, but that it was still too soon for a silent memorial of smoke and ashes. Thus, he paced the corridors endlessly, his body exhausted but refusing to give in to the allure of sleep. He walked past the men’s quarters, and then past the ladies’ rooms – he could hear Ivy’s droning voice from the hall, until he reached the elevator. He pressed the call button and waited, but the elevator never arrived – he supposed the operator had gone home and no-one had replaced him due to the imminent end of the world. He turned on his heel and made for the staircase, but stopped when he heard the sound of breaking glass from one of the rooms to his right – room 237.

“Hello?” Jimmy said, rapping softly on the door. “Are you alright in there?” No answer. Against his better judgement, Jimmy tried the door handle; it was unlocked and he pushed it slowly open. The room was dark so Jimmy was forced to grope around for the light switch – when he finally found it he flicked it on to reveal a scene of utter horror; the bed was awash with blood and a smartly suited man was sprawled atop it, his eyes rolled back into his head. A young woman in her nightgown was kneeling over his corpse, drooling and greedily licking at a gaping wound to his stomach. As Jimmy watched in dismay she bent over and took a bite from the man’s midsection, feasting on his flesh - Jimmy gagged and backed out of the room, pulling the door closed as he went. He ran down the corridor and slammed into his room, throwing himself against the door.

“What is it?” Bates said, jumping out of bed.

“It’s happening again,” Jimmy hissed, “they’re in the building!”

“We have to get out of here,” Bates exclaimed, “I’m getting Anna.”

“You can’t go out there,” Jimmy shook his head, blocking the doorway. “You can’t let those _things_ in here.”

“James,” Bates said darkly, “move or I will remove you.”

“Now I think we all need to calm down,” Molesley started, but he was interrupted by the ringing of a fire bell and the sound of raised voices from the street outside. Bates took the opportunity to shove Jimmy aside and push open the door.

“I’m sorry James,” he said, “but I have to get to Anna.”

~

The sound of the fire bell had drawn Lord Grantham, Branson and a few other guests out of their rooms.

“Bates,” Grantham called, “what’s going on?”

“James said he saw another one of those creatures,” Bates replied, “then we heard the fire bell too.”

“Then we should leave,” Grantham said, “get the staff ready, I’ll gather the family.”

~

Thomas had served in several roles over the years; hall boy, footman, medic, valet and under-butler, but his vast experience proved useless when trying to change the soiled nappy of a very distressed baby.

“Shh,” Thomas soothed, “it’s alright Freddie.”

“You’re doing it wrong,” Lily interjected.

“If you’re the expert,” Thomas scowled, “why don’t you change him?”

“Ugh, s’too smelly,” Lily shook her head. “And Ma said I’m not s’posed to.”

“That’s very convenient,” Thomas sighed, dusting Freddie’s ruddy buttocks with talc – he vaguely remembered the process from watching his own mother change one of his younger siblings. “Fetch me a clean nappy will you?”

“Ok…” Lily peered into a draw and then into another before handing over the square of towelling. “Uh, that’s the last one.”

“Then Freddie better not go and soil himself again today,” Thomas grimaced. He battled with the nappy pin and Freddie’s flailing legs, before gathering the material with a shrug, haphazardly pinning the whole ensemble together and hoping for the best.

“If that stays on it’ll be a bloody miracle,” Lily sniggered.

“Well I’m not a nanny,” Thomas replied, although he rather felt like one. He lifted Freddie up into a proper cuddle and the infant snuggled into his shoulder.

“Thomas?” Lily said, sitting on the nursing chair, “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas replied. Lily looked so small and tired – he’d almost forgotten she was only a child herself, for all her bluster, and she’d lost both her parents to real life monsters. She was probably shell-shocked too. “My ankle is too sore to go far today, but we’ll have to get supplies tomorrow – nappies and more milk, for starters.”

“You won’t leave us, will you?” Lily pulled at a tear in her dress, her eyes downcast. “Thomas – I’m scared and I don’t know what to do.”

“No Lily, I won’t leave you.” Thomas put his gloved hand on her shoulder and the girl threw her arms around his torso. “And I’ll figure something out, I promise,” he said.

~

While Bates tried to arrange an organised evacuation Jimmy slipped away and found his way to the staff staircase – he knew a fancy hotel like this would have a separate entrance for the maids. He just couldn’t stay – he couldn’t hang around in the corridor lollygagging and waiting to get eaten – he needed to get outside where there was space and a _chance_ to get away. As he slipped silently down the stairs he wondered if Thomas had turned into one of those things; the thought made his skin crawl and he dropped to his knees, heaving. He couldn’t leave Thomas like that, wondering around the countryside, cold and alone and…what if he could be saved? Jimmy sat upright; of course, some clever scientist was probably concocting a cure. How could he have been so stupid? If he could just _find_ Thomas and keep him safe somehow – and maybe Thomas would recognise him. Of course – Thomas would never hurt him.

Jimmy knew what he had to do.

~

“Everyone is being too loud,” Daisy said, nervously glancing around at the congregated mass of the family and servants combined.

“If we leave, where are we going to go?” Ivy said in a low voice, “That policeman said it was happening all over the place.”

“Now everyone listen here,” Lord Grantham commanded, “I’m going down to the lobby to find out what’s going on and…”

“Look Papa,” Mary interrupted, “the elevator is finally coming up.”

“Ah, well,” Grantham walked over to the doors and waited for them to open, “I bet whoever is inside will know what is going on.”

“This…something is wrong,” Daisy whispered, as the elevator doors slowly slid apart to reveal a smoke-filled interior.

“There must be a fire somewhere,” Branson stated and one of the children started to cry.

The smoke dissipated, exposing the half-desiccated, yet still shambling corpse of a bellboy. Lady Rose let forth a shrill screech at the sight and the bellboy’s head snapped up; he eyed the veritable smorgasbord in the corridor with pale and hungry eyes. As he lurched forward the door of room 237 was thrust open and two former guests staggered into the fray.

There was a moment of stillness as the situation registered before complete chaos broke out in the corridor.

“Run!” Branson shouted, dashing back into his room with the children in tow.

“Daisy, what do we do?” Ivy cried; the route to their room was cut off by the shambling former residents of 237. Daisy spotted the staircase – if they couldn’t hide then they would have to run.

“Quick – the stairs!” Daisy replied, pulling Ivy by the sleeve.

~

The staff staircase exited into an untidy alleyway beside the hotel; Jimmy had barely made it outside when one of the hotel windows exploded outwards, showering the pavement with shards of glass and billowing thick grey smoke into the night. Jimmy flinched and threw himself against the wall – a group of frightened pedestrians ran by, shouting and crying, chased by a now-deceased police constable.

“York’s finest indeed,” Jimmy sneered. Two shots rang out from inside the hotel, startling Jimmy – he knocked into a rubbish bin and the metal lid fell to the floor with clang before rolling away. The police constable turned his attention to the alleyway, peering into the darkness with fixed pinpoint pupils.

“Shit,” Jimmy surmised.

~

Daisy dragged Ivy by her wrist, her bare feet slapping against the metal edges of the stairs. She felt her way forwards in the gloomy stairwell, her left hand ghosting along the bannister.

“Daisy, please stop!” Ivy protested, but Daisy ignored her – they had to get out, and they had to do it quickly. She could taste smoke in the air and the sound of gunshots and screaming just spurred her forwards, a new-found survival instinct taking over.

“Daisy, I’m frightened,” Ivy wailed, “I can’t!” And she pulled her hand free from Daisy’s grasp.

“We’re all scared,” Daisy snapped, “but y’can’t just give up ‘cause you’re scared. You’ll _die_ Ivy, if y’do.”

“But this – this is too much,” Ivy started to cry – Daisy could barely make out her shape in the darkness.

“Don’t make me slap yer,” Daisy threatened, but Ivy just sobbed harder at the warning. A door clanged open somewhere above them and the sound of groaning filled the stairwell. “They’re here! Daisy hissed, “We have to go!”

“Go, go!” Ivy replied and they started down the stairs at breakneck speed. They had barely cleared three floors when Ivy lost her footing and tumbled down the steps – Daisy tried to grab her but she plunged past with a shrill scream; a scream that stopped dead when Ivy hit the bottom step with an heavy clang.

“Ivy!” Daisy yelped and hurried to her side – Ivy was still, her eyes open but unseeing. “No, no, no,” Daisy muttered, the shuffling footsteps and low moans growing closer as she hovered over her fallen friend. “I’m so sorry Ivy,” Daisy whimpered. She kissed the kitchen maid’s forehead then turned and ran, tears blurring her already impaired vision.

~

Bates cautiously retrieved the pistol he’d hidden in the waistband of his trousers and pulled Anna behind him – after what they’d endure together over the past few years, he’d be damned if he’d let these monstrosities be the end of them.

“Get in your rooms and lock the doors,” he commanded in a low voice, and the terrified staff obeyed him. Lord Grantham rallied to his side, a rifle once again in his able hands, as the three undead inched towards them.

“Just like old times Bates,” Grantham said.

“Indeed milord,” Bates replied as he raised his gun, “just like old times.”

~

Freddie was crying _again_ and honestly, Thomas couldn’t blame him – he was a poor replacement for the child’s lost parents and was making a mess of soothing the hungry infant.

“Every one of those things is gonna hear ‘im,” Lily hissed, agitated.

“I know,” Thomas replied, “but he’d not going to stop until he gets fed.”

“I would’ve got more milk yesterday,” Lily sulked, “but I were too busy rescuin’ _you_.”

Thomas held his tongue and reminded himself that she was but a girl, and a traumatised one at that.

“I’m not even sure babies are supposed to have real milk,” Thomas said. He recalled how little Miss Sybbie had been given a sort of evaporated milk after the untimely passing of her mother – there were still some cans of it in the pantry that had been bought in as a precaution before the birth of Master George.

“Then what are we s’posed to do?” Lily shook her head. “I’m getting’ hungry an’ all.”

“We should go to the Abbey,” Thomas said, a plan unfolding in his mind. “There’s plenty of food there, and a nursery filled with all sorts of baby things.”

“The big house?” Lily frowned. “Is it safe there?”

Thomas shrugged; “About as safe as anywhere else. At least we won’t starve to death. It’s a long way though.”

“Not if we take Pa’s truck,” Lily said, “It’s parked ‘round the back.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to drive,” Thomas shook his head – it would have been a good deal less dangerous than walking there on a bad ankle with a child and a crying baby.

“I do,” Lily smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't directly mentioned a lot of the characters, but it's hard writing this ensemble thing - make me almost feel for Julian Fellows. Almost.
> 
> And sorry about Ivy! And all the cliffhangers. Oops.


End file.
